I happen to like denial.
I know, some do and some don’t.
But I like it. It’s easy.
“I didn’t do it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I wasn’t there.”
“He never hit me.”
So very easy.
I used to be honest. So painfully honest.
Then, I met him. He taught me the ease of stretching the truth. He taught me that sometimes it’s better if the truth isn’t spoken. Not necessarily a lie.
“It wasn’t me.”
“Don’t point fingers at me. I had nothing to do with it.”
“He would never do such a thing. I know him. I know.”
He had some denials of his own.
Denials he spoke to me.
“I was at work the whole time.”
“I would never do something like that. Don’t you know me at all?”
“It wasn’t me! QUIT ACCUSING ME OF SUCH THINGS!”
I saw the holes.
I saw through them all.
And it hurts.
And it burns.
I know him too well now.
I look at the match in between my fingers.
The flame is rushing down to my fingertips.
I could blow it out.
Or I could drop it on these papers.
These papers soaked with gasoline.
I make my choice.
And I’m ready to deny it all.